


Reset

by tatch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A lonesome reapbean, All is fair in love and sleep darts, Ana is too tired for this, Angst and Feels, But only for one guy, Constant Regeneration and Decay, Flashbacks, Gabe's idea of first dates, Jack's terrible self-care routines, Love, M/M, Memory Loss, Nanites following 30 years old programming, Past Non-Graphic Gore, Reaper76 Reversebang, Reaperbeans, Regeneration, SEP bullshit taking 30 years to activate, Second Chances, Trust, Turn Back the Clock, it's in the flashbacks if you want to avoid it, rated m to be safe, reaperson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatch/pseuds/tatch
Summary: The voice is Ana’s but she’s old, silver-haired, wrinkled face, eye-patch on her right eye.She’s got the same tattoo, though. In the same spot. The same intensity, a sniper’s gaze. The same carefulness in her moves, sharp temper kept in check.“The fuck happened to your eye.” He blurts out, as if that’s the most important question.





	1. Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Reaper76 reversebang and based on the wonderful art the great orotea made ! (which can be found [here on Twitter](https://twitter.com/oroteapot/status/929717458096726017) and [here on Tumblr](http://orotea.com/post/167411518839/my-reaper76-reverse-big-bang-bait-piece-with-a) !) Go check it out :3
> 
> It was a pleasure to write this and work with orotea <3  
> Next chapter will be up next sunday o/

 

The mission didn't go well.

It didn't go badly either, at least not from _their_ definition of bad. No-one died, no-one got crippled and there had been no outside casualties (a few Talon goons got _slightly_ maimed by an angry Winston but heh.) Little to no collateral damage, too (there had been that one bus stop that got trampled to the ground, but it had been blissfully empty, thanks to the late hour.)

 

And yet, Jack is fuming.

 

Ana can tell that much, despite the visor that covers most of his face. He's clenching his rifle, hunched on himself, trying to contain his temper, which means he's angry but he doesn't know _why_. Yet. She sighs and gratefully accepts the thermos of tea Reinhardt had dug out for her, a smile of thanks playing on her lips before her attention turns back to Jack again. If she knows him the way she does, there's a big chance he'll hit the gym first thing out of the transporter, to try and get rid of that aimless rage. Unless of course, his anger finds a target in the meantime.

She hopes it won't.

 

They land, and like clockwork, Jack springs out of his seat and is headed inside before the transporter's landing ramp is fully out. There's a few commenting whispers and everyone else files out, slowly. Morale is a bit low after their defeat. Nothing a good night of rest and some training won't fix though. After a short talk with Ziegler about who received bad hits during the mission and who could probably just use a few gentle words (and without missing the way the doctor still blushes when she thinks Ana is looking somewhere else, blue eyes darting over a face worn by time and war in a shy but hungry manner), Ana heads to the gym and Jack is there. She expected him to be shooting things, but instead finds him punching bots, face twisted in a mix of frustration, anger and … confusion?

 

"Jack." She calls, after observing for a minute (or twenty) and noticing that his rhythm is far from faltering.

He grunts.

She clucks her tongue.

He huffs, tense, but stops, telling Athena to stop the simulation for now.

"What." He almost spats, looking away. Ana weights her words. He's too tense for a joke, too angry to answer her directly.

"It's not like you to be angry like this." Nor for your anger to linger so long. "Did something happen?"

 

Jack passes a hand in his hair, tugging on it when he reaches the top of his head then clenches and unclenches his fists in front of himself. He huffs again and the way he rolls his shoulder makes it look like there's something crawling up his back and he can't shake it off. Ana's eye narrows and she comes closer, careful not to get to close. Angry super soldiers tend to forget about their strength and about the fact that 'normal' people can't take hits the way they do. There is nothing on Jack's back. At least, nothing that she can see.

"I don't know." Jack grumbles finally. "It's like-" He makes a highly frustrated sound, hands clenching around nothing, knuckles white. "-like there's something I have to do and I just- I can't- It's right there and I can't-" His hands shoot up and Ana take a cautious step back but Jack just grips his hair tightly, pulling at it like it offended him. A good minute passes before he lets go, a defeated whisper on his lips. "I haven't felt like … _this_ since … SEP."

 

Ah.

 

A SEP thing.

 

And the only other person still alive on this planet, the only person who might know what's going on, tried to put a bullet in Jack's gut last time they crossed paths. (And settled for dislocating his arm and breaking his nose instead) Ana puts a hand on Jack's forearm, half expecting him to brush her off. He twitches but looks her way and hell, when had he gotten so old. When had _they_ gotten so old. She pushes the thought away, focuses on the confusion, the exhaustion she can read behind the rage simmering at the surface.

"Maybe Angela could give you something." And if for a split second she had forgotten how much he hates having to rely on doctors, Ana is reminded of it in the way he shudders and tenses all at once. So she continues as if it had been her intention from the beginning, a placating hand cutting Jack off before he can refuse. "Or try to sleep it off. Either way, you're not safe to be around, old friend." His mouth closes on whatever scathing answer had been about to come out and the muscles of his jaw play as he mulls it over.

"Fine." He grumbles.

"Promise me you'll go see Angela if it doesn't get better." She presses, knowing when she's got the advantage.

He's clearly unhappy about it but he nods curtly, once, before grabbing one of the punching bags and heading back to his quarters, Ana following him quietly, a couple steps behind. Lucio crosses their path, but Ana waves for him to get out of the way (and the musician does as asked, thankfully.)

Jack sets the bag so he can punch it without breaking anything then stills, tongue darting out to lick his lips before he speaks.

"If you have to send someone to me…"

"I'll send Rein." She finishes and he nods. Even angry as all hell, even if he _tried_ , Jack wouldn't be able to hurt the crusader. Bruise him a bit maybe, but Reinhardt was the only person on site who could take the beating an angry (or out of control) super soldier could dish without ending up in the med-bay. After another nod, Ana leaves and she hears the door lock behind her.

Good.

 

* * *

 

The only reason she doesn't send Reinhardt to Jack's quarters with a plate of food when lunch comes around, is because she can see that _someone_ ate a lot of food (or well, took a lot of the food) and all of Jack's favourites are gone (most of which is stuff no-one else eats.) It bothers her still, because she knows Jack, and his stupid eating schedule (more of a bunch of bad habits truthfully) and the man usually foregoes breakfast, eats lunch while working but shares dinner with everyone, regardless of his mood or desire to be left alone.

So it's not until Jack doesn't show up for dinner that she really gets worried, and heads to his quarters, asking Athena to unlock the door so she can check on him.

The room is as chaotic as ever, with added clutter from the empty snack packets and bits that look suspiciously like ripped parts of the punching bag  that she can see lying on the ground. A quiet sound has Ana relax. Jack is asleep. Probably passed out after spending the night awake and then eating a good chunk of their supplies. He'd closed the blinds, ignored the bed (as he often did) and if she squints, she can see the barely lit outline of his body, curled in the couch, his back to the door.

No reason to wake him up.

She closes the door quietly and leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack wakes up to a pounding headache, a dry mouth and a vague nausea. He wants to roll and curse himself for getting drunk but he knows better than to move too fast. Slowly, carefully, he cracks an eye open. The room is blessedly dark, blinds closed, no lights on and Jack sends a grateful thanks to his yesterday drunk self for his foresight. There's an empty bottle of … Jack Daniels (real funny) in his lap.

Ugh.

Who the hell talked him into drinking until he passed out? He does have a vague idea, and, once he's steady on his feet again, he absolutely plans on wiping the (no doubt) smug expression on that idiot's face.

Jack gingerly uncurls his limbs, feeling blood return in his left arm. His muscles are stiff. His joints ache. He mutters a curse and winces. His throat hurts. Geez, what the heck happened yesterday for him to feel like he got chewed by a bear, spit out and then stomped on by a couple of Bastion units?

Whatever happened, he hopes no-one took pictures.

He's still hearing about what happened last Christmas.

A faint smile at the corner of his lips, Jack gets up to head to the bathroom and empty his bladder. Or, he would, if he hadn't almost tripped on … whatever the fuck is littering the ground. Clean-up, he's going to have to do clean-up while being hung over. Great. He pads carefully to the bathroom, wary of whatever else might be on the ground. The room seems too small, too cluttered to be his. Regardless, all the rooms in the Watchpoint are built the same (just with differing sizes and added rooms), so finding the doorknob and then the light switch is easy. He squints unhappily for a long moment, letting his hurt eyes adapt back to light.

Someone broke the mirror. It's not recent, either. The shards have been taken away, leaving nothing but an empty space where the reflective surface should have been. Jack pours himself a glass of water, downs it, and wrinkles his nose at the scent coming off of him. He _reeks._ There's a half-curse, half-groan on his lips as he strips, muscles and joints protesting. He ignores them and frowns as he steps under the hot water. The room _is_ small _,_ the shower stall barely big enough for him to fit in comfortably. His elbows keep hitting the wall and by the end of his shower, despite the water easing some of the ache away, he's scowling. It might be the hangover but he's pretty sure this isn't his room. It's not Gabe's room either. (He's got a shower built to the same dimensions as Jack's) Fuck, whose room did he spent the night in? Jack really _really_ hopes there's no-one in the bed and that he simply holed up in one of the many empty rooms.

He dries himself, wraps a towel around his hips. He'd considered putting his clothes back on, but honestly? He'd rather trot around the base in just a towel, even though Ana will probably threaten to dart him again. Jack snorts and steps back out of the bathroom, turning the main room's light on this time.

He's seen battlefields neater than this place. There are food wrappers, part of a stack of paper (that seemingly rose too high and fell to the ground in a wave of square whites)  and the scattered remains of … _something_ thrown around haphazardly. No wonder he'd tripped. Geez. But at least, there isn't anyone in the bed. Which looks like it's never been unmade and only hosts a bunch of clothes, more papers in unsteady or already crumbled piles, a couple knives and …. his rifle?

 

What the fuck.

 

It's too early, and he's too hungover to deal with this right now, so Jack simply goes to the pile of clothing to check if anything is in his size. Surprisingly, most of it is.

Well.

Not like he's going to complain.

 

After a couple more curses and groans at his sore body, and once he's decent again, Jack heads out to get some caffeine in himself. He walks leisurely to the mess hall. The base is silent, but not in an ominous way, no, in a way that speaks of lazy mornings and nights that dragged on too late.

The mess is remarkably empty, except for a couple sitting near the counter where the coffee maker sits. Jack can't remember seeing them before, and their clothing is that of civilians. Visitors? Or maybe freshly enrolled agents? It's hard to tell. He mutters a greeting and is relieved when they answer without looking up. Relieved that they don’t look at  him. This whole … celebrity thing, his face being everywhere out there made him very uncomfortable. But mostly, it was the starry-eyed newbies and faces filled with awe and wonder that made him want to run.

He wasn’t _that_ special.

Shaking his head, Jack serves himself a cup of coffee which he promptly drowns in honey sweetness. He groans at the relief that is honey on his hurt throat. Black coffee was just _yeesh._ The cupboards seemed quite empty. Had they not received supplies yet? Hm. He’d have to check that out. But there’s the sound of a group of people approaching and, wincing internally, he turns to head out and back to his quarters. Except the couple sitting at the nearby table have looked up while he was busy and they’re staring at him, in awe, no wait, that wasn’t awe, that was-

“… Jack?”

Ana. He looks up but doesn’t see the sniper. Whatever the group had been talking about, all conversations have stopped since they stepped into the mess hall. Jack swallows. That had been Ana’s voice, but where is she? An old woman steps up, slowly, like she’s afraid of spooking him.

“Jack.”

 

Jack blinks. The voice is _Ana’s_ but she’s old, silver-haired, wrinkled face, eye-patch on her right eye.

She’s got the same tattoo, though. In the same spot. The same intensity, a sniper’s gaze. The same carefulness in her moves, sharp temper kept in check.

 

“The fuck happened to your eye.” He blurts out, as if that’s the most important question.

 

All hell breaks loose.

 


	2. Reload

 

Gabriel curses and rubs at his eyes.

Who the fuck sent those orders. Who the hell is willing to pay him (he checks the amount, makes a face) _that much_ for him to spring Akande motherfucking Ogundimu from the _Maximum Security Prison_ he’s been rotting in for years. The last known bearer of the fucking _Doomfist_.

It sucked.

It sucked balls.

And in no fun way.

At least the deadline was pretty loose.

Small mercies.

 

With another expletive toward the dumbass who thought it would be a good idea to pay him to free one of the very few leaders of Talon with enough brain to realize Reaper wasn’t a model of loyalty, Gabriel returns to planning his next move.

Or, at least, he tries. But his enhanced hearing, which had returned to uncomfortable levels of sensitivity ever since Zurich, picks the sound of footsteps coming to his quarters. His _lair_ , as Sombra insisted on mock-calling it. And the annoyance coming his way isn’t walking, no, it is running. Something urgent must have happened. Well, something whoever the fuck is coming deemed urgent anyway.

Ugh.

Whatever.

 

Putting Reaper’s ‘face’ back on, he turns toward the door, about three seconds before it slams open.

“Gabe!”

Behind the mask covering his face, Gabriel raises a brow. There’s an agent trailing behind Sombra ( who just erupted into the room and is already stalking his way) that looks like he’d rather be everywhere, anywhere but here. Gabriel dismisses him with a wave of his wrist, and the speed at which the agent complies makes him smirk. Hey, he gets his fun where he can these days.

 

He refocuses on Sombra, who’s almost _bouncing in excitement_ , and frowns. That’s new. And worrying. Getting Sombra interested in something, anything can be as easy as breathing or as hard as moving mountains. Her attention, her focus is fleeting, most of the time. And he has never seen her this excited, not even about stuff she came to him with on her own.

“What.” He grunts.

In lieu of answering, she shoves a screen in his face. The mass of holographic pixel is way too close for him to see anything except a bunch of blurry colors. He clears his throat and she rolls her eyes, but does move the screen out of his face. Gabriel finally gets to look at its content.

It’s a picture, no, a short clip, that shows someone walking down a hallway. Judging by the color of the walls and ground, it must be happening in an Overwatch base. Then the blond mop of the person walking registers. And he _stomps_ on the pang of hurt and longing and _Jack_ that springs in his chest. He looks back to Sombra who is still bouncing on her heels.

“And.”

 

All he gets is another roll of her eyes and a muttered ‘estùpido’, before she enlarges the time stamp in the corner. He’d barely noticed it. His focus turns laser sharp the moment the meaning of the numbers registers.

That’s not some old footage.

The time stamp is no more than ten minutes old.

That’s impossible. Jack doesn’t look like he’s more than thirty. Hell, he barely looks like he is thirty.

It can’t be-

Unless-

 

* * *

 

_An arm, that should have been attached to a shoulder but had instead rolled a few feet away._

_Torn ribs, white, so white, against the vivid red and purples of guts and meat and blood._

_Blind blue eyes and hair that had once been blond, but was now mated by blood and dirt, dyed in shades of brown and grey and red._

_There was so much red, so much blood. And he knows he doesn’t have time, that the screech of metal, the resounding whir and clank he can hear approaching will be here soon but he can’t leave him here-not like this-it’s not right-_

 

* * *

 

Gabriel squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenched tightly, and wills the memory away.

There’s a tense second of silence before he breathes again. He hasn’t thought about what had happened that day in a long time. He has refused to think about what had happened that day for a long long time. But it’s the only explanation he can think of. Which fucking means he can’t stay here.

Shit.

There are a lot of implications rolling in his gut as he stares at a probably less than thirty years old Jack that’s padding down a hallway. One of them dominates the rest.

Jack had reset.

Jack had died.

Someone had killed Jack.

_Jack wasn’t safe._

And, despite all the bad blood between them, the anger, the bitterness, the betrayals and rivers of blood, Gabriel can’t let someone hurt Jack. More than they already have. Fuck.

He had promised himself it would never happen.

 _Never again_.

He has to get to Jack.

 

As he turns into smoke and rushes away to the hangars, he distantly hears Sombra calling his name. Not that it does anything to stop him. And while his legs aren’t in the best of shape due to the bouts of regeneration the nanites are regularly subjecting his body to, making his walk slower than it should be; as smoke, he is _fast_ . Even if Sombra ran straight there (and her stamina isn’t good enough for her to do that), she’d never catch up to him. He dashes and reforms in the hangar, commandeers a small ship in a voice that screams that he wants it _right now_ and that people are going to start losing limbs if he has to wait.

 

Five minutes, and a terrified cluster of agents later, he’s in the air, setting a course toward Gibraltar. (According to Sombra’s latest intel, the ‘new’ Overwatch is still clustered there, like a bunch of rats waiting to be drowned. Had they forgotten everything about tactics, really.) It will take some time before he gets there and if this was any other op, he’d use that time to nap. But there’s no way he’s going to be able to nap, not when all he can think about is how vulnerable Jack must be.

 

It doesn’t matter if that idiot trusts those people.

 

Doesn’t fucking matter that Gabriel is probably going to get punched in the face (if not shot) by the very person he’s traveling all the way there for, for showing said face in Gibraltar.

 

All that matters is that he’s going to find and slowly dismember whoever hurt the man he loved for half his existence and whom he swore to never let die _again_.

 

And he’s going to enjoy it.

 

* * *

 

The eruption of sound has Jack wince with pain.

Everyone’s shouting, words blurring in a cacophony that _hurts_. Fuck, why is it hurting so much? His eyes squeeze shut as he stumbles backwards, back hitting the counter as he tries to get away from the noise.

The sound of his mug breaking barely registers. He’s too busy covering his ears with his hands to muffle as much of it as he can. All he wants right now is to run away. Or _make them_ shut up.

Fight or flight.

And neither options are available right now.

Thankfully, the noise dies down rapidly, save for a few whispers,  letting him turn his whole attention into calming the rush of adrenaline boiling in his veins. Jack’s hands move to his hair but resettle on his neck instead. Tugging on his hair is more effective but if he gets too deep down, he could end up tearing parts out. It had happened before. And Gabriel’s worry had been enough for Jack to try and find something that worked almost as well.

So, neck it is. There’s a big chance it’s going to be bruised once he lets go, but hey, that’s one of the reasons he‘s got all those high-neck tees. He presses and kneads, grip tight, until training kicks in, the echo of his partner’s surprisingly smooth voice whispering in his ear, as if the man was right next to him.

 

_C’mon Jackie, it’s not that hard._

_Just breathe. Like this._

_In, one-two. Yeah, make it slow and deep. Good._

_Now, three-four, keep it, let it burn your lungs._

_Aand out, five-six-seven-eight._

_See? Not that hard, was it?_

_Now you just keep on doing that ‘til you got yourself under control again._

_And don’t worry if you can’t make it work in the beginning. There’s a good reason they partnered people from different batches. We’ve been through this before you guys, we’ve had time to learn._

_I’ll make sure you don’t hurt anyone._

_C’mon._

_One more time._

 

Jack breathes, in-hold-out and does his best to ignore his instincts.

He knows by experience that his ‘reward’ for refusing to do what his body is urging him to will be a gigantic migraine. He’s not looking forward to it. Really not. He definitely needs to work out another way to deal with the bursts of anger and aggression SEP left them with. It had been useful during the Crisis, but now? It was more of a hindrance than anything else. Especially for Jack, who spent more time behind a desk than anything else these days.

The urge finally subsides and, yay, here comes the migraine. He mutters a curse and lets his butt hit the floor, back resting against the smooth metal of the counter, muscles finally relaxing. Too bad his body metabolizes aspirin too fast for it to ever start having any effect, ‘cause he could use one right now. Or a dozen. Hell, he'd chug down the whole bottle if he didn't know already it would be useless.

A hand on his arm, the feather-light pressure of fingers. He opens his eyes, squints at the old woman (that has Ana's voice) crouched nearby. Close enough to touch, far enough that she can back out of his reach in a step or two. Smart move.

 

"Back with us?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that." He makes a face but she's already shaking her head.

"There is no need for excuses. No-one was hurt."

He nods, tired and hungover and still sore, and regrets his move the moment he starts it.

"Migraine." She says, not quite a question, and he hums distractedly an agreement.

She helps him up then directs him toward a chair.

"Sit, I'll bring you something."

 

He sits, looks up. Instead of the crowd he expects, there are only four people sitting at the table 'Ana' sat him at. And he knows two of them. Well, knows. They look like older version of people he knows.

Jack swallows.

The fuck is going on exactly.

 

Instead of dwelling on the fact that everyone he knows seems to have aged overnight, he focuses on the strangers. A lady with blond hair that's so pale it's almost white. Blue eyes, a tired expression. She's wearing a blouse or a lab coat. A scientist or a doctor maybe? He hopes it's the former, not the latter. He hasn't been at ease around docs and medical shit since he was poked and prodded with needles for days on end. The other one was a … the most accurate description would have been to say the guy had taken each and every cowboy stereotype he could find and had slapped them onto himself. Down to the cigar in his mouth and the way he was sitting in his chair.

What the heck.

What's weirder is that Jack feels like he knows the cowboy guy from somewhere. And yet, he's absolutely certain he has never seen him before in his life.

 

A cup of tea is set in front of him. ‘Ana’ smiles at him before sitting on one of the remaining empty chairs.

He nods and mutters a quiet "thanks" before wrapping his hands around it, the heat seeping into his bones.

The silence stretches for a long minute before ‘Ana’ speaks, her gaze intense.

 

“What is the last thing you remember, Jack?”

“What? Why are you asking me this?”

“Just… humor me, old friend.”

 

 _Old friend?_ He frowns, bringing the cup up to his lips to blow on it distractedly as he thinks. His memories are kind of blurry (the alcohol, he guesses) and it’s hard to pinpoint what the latest thing he remembers is exactly. He settles for the closest thing he can think of.

 

“We discussed the idea of creating a medical branch, recently? … Not before everything about the God Programs has been settled and the reconstructions efforts are mostly dealt with, though.”

She nods tightly, her lips pressed in a thin line.

 

The silence stretches again. Jack sips the tea he has been offered quietly as he observes them. There’s a tension in the air, something he has no name for. He expects 'Reinhardt' to break the silence, knowing how much the crusader hates the quiet and the still (how he had whispered once that it belonged to the dead, not in the space between the living.) ‘Ana’ and the scientist-doctor (maybe she’s both, he’s having a hard time telling) keep exchanging looks out of the corner of their eyes. Torbjorn (it's Torbjörn) and the cowboy wannabe are staring at him, one with an annoyed frown, the other with quiet worry that he tries to hide behind a poker face (not that it works, Jack is used to read Gabe’s poker face and the cowboy’s is nowhere _near_ that level of concealing.)

Jack frowns.

Where _is_ Gabriel? Shouldn’t he be here too? Then again, with Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjorn and Jack himself all huddled in here, they need someone to keep an eye on things out there. Makes sense.

 

Jack sets the cup down and asks, calmly but firmly. “What’s going on?”

It’s the cowboy that answers, in a rushed half mumble. “Why do you think anything’s wrong? … Sir.”

 

Jack stares at him coolly. He hasn’t been Strike Commander for all that long, but before his promotion, he was Gabe’s second in command. And just as he knows how to charm and keep people comfortable, he knows how to stare someone down until they squirm and twitch and recoil, trying to hide away from his gaze. And the cowboy is far from immune to his gaze. Jack takes pity on him when he tries to hide behind his ridiculous hat.

His eyes turn to lock with Ana’s as he answers the stranger’s question.

“Because none of you have received a call or checked your comms, when usually, we can barely take two to drink and eat and talk in between calls and missions and meetings. And where is everyone? No-one’s come into the room since you got here. Not a single person passed in the hallway.”

He pauses, exhales, an edge of anger lacing his tone when he talks again.

_“What’s going on?”_

 

The blonde whatever-she is-really taps a finger on the table, looking like she’s about to spill the beans (finally) but Ana beats her to it.

“Winston has a theory.” _‘Who the hell is Winston’_ “He thinks you may have time-traveled.”

Jack blinks, once, twice, slowly, as he processes the information.

“You’re … not joking.”

Her lips quirk in a dry smile.

 

“So…. This is like, the future?”

 

A couple of grimaces that can’t really qualify as smiles bloom on the faces surrounding him.

 

Great.

 

Just his luck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted either next sunday or the one after that o/


	3. Reset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Samky for the help with the spanish :D

 

Sombra doesn’t exactly catch up with him, not physically, but she does hack into the transporter. Gabriel growls. Now is really not a good time.

“What.” He grunts at the purple skull hovering on his right.

“Considering your flight plans, I figured you’d like to be kept in the loop.” She singsongs.

 

In his aggravated state, worried and angry and adrenaline floating in his veins, making everything too sharp, too strong, right here and now and _if she was there he’d have her neck in his hands-_  
  
He needs to get a grip on his temper.

 

Gabriel presses his talon into his palms, feels them pierce the skin and crosses his arms, wrists ‘pinned’ under his armpits. He’s going to bleed, he knows it but the wounds will heal in a minute or two anyway.  
  
  
He breathes.  
  
In-hold-out.  
  
Two breaths in, his fists uncurl to grip at his torso instead, talons pressing under his shoulder blades.  
It’s tight.  
Painful.

_Grounding._

 

In-hold-out.  
  
Unlike most of the people who had gone through SEP, pain didn’t aggravate Gabe’s temper. It grounded him in the here and now, forcing him to think through the haze, through the blood rushing in his veins, in his ears, pulled him back from the edge.

 

In-hold-out.

Not that it really _is_ his temper anyway.  
More like another cursed gift SEP left him ( _them_ ) with.  
  
  
He huffs and slowly lets go of his hold. His palms sting rhythmically, as do his sides, just as he knew they would. He knows he’s going to have a migraine later, his 'reward' for refusing to obey his instincts. Wonderful. He can't wait.  Sombra knows better than to break his focus when he crosses his arms and starts taking rhythmic breaths. So she’d patiently waited for him to ‘do his thing’ even though he is quite certain she doesn’t know what he is doing exactly.  
  
“What loop?” He mutters, feeling edges of pain starting to form at the corner of his mind.

  
  
A screen appears on his left. It contains the security feed from Gibraltar’s mess hall and - _Jack_.  
  
“There’s a ten to twenty minutes delay, so don’t let your blood pressure go through the ceiling, _entendido_?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand dismissively, hears her check a few security details of the ship (like the ship's shield or its stealth barrier-hologram that prevents it from being seen or detected on the first look) but it doesn’t take long before she leaves (or goes silent again, who knows) and then, he can finally focus on the feed, and on the migraine that is taking its fucking sweet time to bloom behind his eyes in sharp lancing spikes.

Ugh.

 

On the screen, Jack is sipping something that could be tea or coffee, considering the color. Then he opens his mouth and-

“Sombra.”

She hums, because of course, she had stayed around.

“Why is there no sound.”  
  
“The AI stores the audio and video feeds in two different places. I could get both but …”  
  
“But?”  
  
“ … It would make my presence much much easier to notice.”

He closes his eyes, strangling the part of himself that wants to hear, that wants _everything_. It’s just a conversation, quiet, in a mess hall. He can read most of their expressions and can ask for the audio files later if necessary. It’s _not_ worth it. 

“Do you want me to do it anyway?” Sombra adds softly and Gabriel reopens his eyes with a sigh.  
  
“No.”

She hums an agreement before going quiet again. Gabriel doesn’t know whether he should be worried by her interest or not. It seems harmless enough. So far. But things are always harmless with Sombra, up until they aren’t. 

 

Nothing he can do about it right now, anyway.

  
  
On the screen, Jack stares Jesse down and is discussing something with Ana and Reinhardt. Angela chimes in a few times, but she looks highly uncomfortable. They turn toward the entry all of a sudden and Winston enters, holding some sort of device in his hands, Oxton on his heels.

Jack seems to be favoring talking to Ana and Reinhardt over any of the others.  
  
More talking, Winston points the device at Oxton and shows the screen (that probably displays some kind of data but Gabriel can't see it from the angle the camera gives him) to Jack and Ana, then points it at Ana and shows them the results again. They nod and he waves the device around a few times as he seems to be explaining something.

Then he points it at Jack.

Frowns.

Makes a face.

Points it again.

Whatever the result he gets is, the monkey (scientist) doesn’t seem happy with it. He taps the side of the device, turns it over, no doubt checking something before frowning and trying a third time. Ana has to take the thing from Winston to read the data. Whatever she says puts an expression of utter confusion on everyone’s face.

Jack opens his mouth, closing it right after a few times, brows furrowed while Jesse is doing a lot of arm flailing. Reinhardt and Torbjörn make a couple of hand gestures at each other, no doubt discussing another aspect of whatever is happening.

 

If Gabriel was to guess, he’d say it’s some kind of chronal measure device (what with Oxton being there and all.) They think Jack traveled back in time, don’t they. That his younger and older version got exchanged or something of the like. Idiots. Not that they could know any better. After all, Gabriel had never told anyone what had happened that day. He refused to think about it, had done his best to forget that fucking day. Not that he had any real idea of what had happened back then. He just knew what the result had been.

 

Torbjörn and Reinhardt are following the conversation (which looks more like a shouting contest from Gabriel’s soundless point of view) when all of a sudden they all turn to Jack, who has raised a hand and is pinching the bridge of his nose. He says something, shakes his head a few times and leaves. Jesse looks like he wants to follow but a glare from Ana stops him. She says something, her expression somber and surprisingly, it’s Torbjörn that answers.

They exchange a nod and a beat later, she’s going after Jack.

 

With pain beating a steady tempo in his head, Gabriel follows the pair through hallways and corridors, camera switching on its own (or thanks to Sombra) every time they get out of range. Ana doesn’t try to stop Jack or talk to him, she just follows. Jack seems conflicted, passing his hand in his hair back and forth. As he turns a corner, and the camera switches again, Gabriel can see his brows are furrowed even more than in the mess hall and he’s worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

They stop in front of a door. It isn’t the door the Strike-Commander quarters, Gabriel would recognize that door in a split second. Jack’s current quarters then? Was he punishing himself by not going back to the spacious quarters he’d lived in for years? Or was he simply avoiding memories? Both sounded like something that old piece of white bread would do.

Not that he looked all that old anymore.

  
  
Jack must say something because Ana answers with something short enough to be a yes or a no. Jack’s continues and turns to glance at Ana, eyes searching her face. She stays silent for a bit then replies. Whatever she says, it seems to be bring pain to Jack, as he closes his eyes, swallows visibly and passes a hand down his face. He nods after a handful of seconds, turning to enter the room but stops and turns back to Ana, a sad smile on his lips as he listens to what she’s asking. There’s tension in his shoulders as he shrugs helplessly and answers her, that sad smile still etched on his lips. Ana opens her mouth again but Jack shakes his head before she can say anything. A long second passes without either of them talking or moving, then she adds something, to which Jack nods then disappears inside the room, shutting the door behind him. Ana hovers for a moment before turning on her heels and leaving.

There are no cameras inside Jack’s quarters, so Gabriel can’t follow what is happening anymore. He could keep an eye on what Amari and the others are doing, but it doesn’t matter. Well, it probably does, but he doesn’t give two shit about it.

“I want the location of Morrison’s current quarters. And find out who’s paying for Ogundimu to be freed.”

“On it, Gabe.”

 

He sighs internally. He has a feeling today is only going to get worse. Might have to do with the rifle in the face he knows he’s going to get. Or the disturbing willingness Sombra is exhibiting.

Who knows.  
Might be both.

At least his migraine didn’t last (but they never did.)

 

* * *

 

First floor, east wing, sixth and seventh windows.

Gabriel slithers along the wall, hiding away from the light that illuminate the Watchpoint during the night,  sliding and crawling as well as a thick cloud of smoke could. He is trying to avoid detection (he would have strolled in in broad daylight otherwise.) But in this form, his senses are much duller. And that means he’s been ‘running’ in circles for the past fifteen minutes, frustration steadily building up.

First floor, east wing, sixth and seventh windows.  
And, really Jack, the sixth and seventh windows?

He’s got the floor right, but he can’t tell if this is the east, south or north wing (the west wing is almost entirely encased in rock, so he knows that not where he is.)

 

Cursing under his breath (which only results in a bubbling of smoke), Gabriel slides away and reforms on a roof. He needs a better view of the building, even if just for a minute. Ah, there. He had been on the south wall. So, first floor, sixth and seventh windows should be … there. The ones with the blinds closed. Of course. He should have known. (Maybe there lies the explanation for how pale Jack had gotten during the years after Zurich.)

The HUD embedded in his mask tells him he received a contract offer. He glances at it, noticing it’s not coming from someone affiliated with Talon (not openly anyway) before he smokes and heads straight to the windows. Gabriel is prepared to press himself through joints and to have to dribble inside slowly but- One of the windows is open.

What a thoughtful gesture.

 

He slips inside the room carefully, half-forms back near the window. No gun waiting for him, no trap. From what he can see in the barely lit room, Jack is in his bed and … there’s a ridiculous amount of paper spread (more like thrown and discarded) on the ground. There are pile of ... well it's trash, he can't call it anything but that, strewn around, as if someone had attempted to clean the room about had given up up halfway through.

He waits for a moment before approaching but still, there’s no reaction. 

  
Jack is ... asleep?

Uh.

He wasn't expecting that.

Now what.

 

Gabriel isn’t sure how long he stands there, unmoving, his eyes simply taking in the faint golden hue, the now-no-longer scarred back, what little he can see in the low light. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he notices that the freckles that had vanished from Jack’s skin with age have returned. Jack looks … young. He looks okay. He no longer looks like a tired, thin (so thin, too thin), exhausted husk of himself.

Gabriel swallows back the taste of bile in his mouth. He knows what it took for Jack to reset like that. (Or does he.)

 

Footsteps approaching.

He turns back to smoke and hides in the closest hiding spot.

Under the bed.

There’s a joke about kids and monsters living under their bed on his tongue but he pushes it back and waits.

 

The door opens and someone comes in. Boots, slim ankles and a light footing. A woman. The bed dips, he hears a voice. But the way his senses are, while he’s smoke, kind of makes sound sound as if he was underwater. The sounds are distorted, muffled yet amplified. It’s impossible to tell what’s being said. It’s already hard to differentiate the two voices.

Gabriel waits.

Eventually the woman leaves, after a short conversation with Jack.

He waits some more, until the movements of the bed above him cease entirely.

 

Gingerly, he slithers from under the bed and reforms next to it. Jack has rolled onto his other side and is now facing his way. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and regular.

Gabriel considers.

He could leave. Just, leave back the way he came in. He checked on Jack and Jack is okay. But for how long. And that’s the real issue. Someone killed Jack, or had hurt him bad enough to trigger a reset. Could have been anything. From a blunt assault to poison to a broken neck to strangling him in his sleep.

And-

Gabriel doesn’t want to leave.

And yet, he knows that he’s not welcome here.

 _Just check on Jack and go, Reyes._  
  
It’ll have to do.  
  
  
He mists his armor, his gauntlets, his knives, his guns away, reshapes the smoke into battered jeans, a hoodie and simple gloves. He feels vulnerable, but if he doesn’t look threatening, maybe he won’t get shot and punched right away.

Gabriel sits on the bed, near Jack. The man grumbles something as the bed dips, then opens his eyes and glares.

 

A beat passes.

 

And then Gabriel has to stop himself from forming his guns as he is pulled and … kissed?

He makes a confused sound but Jack seems intent on not letting go.

  
  
What.

The fuck?

Hm.

Well.

Mmh.

Those lips are still just as might fine and deliciously warm as he remembers them to be.

(And it's been so long, too long.)

Maybe he won’t complain.

Not yet.

Later.

Yeah, later sounds good.

 

Eventually, Jack pulls back, his hands not quite letting go of their hold on Gabriel’s hoodie.

“Hey.”

And hell, Jack’s smile should not be allowed to be this distracting, or this close to his face.

“Hey … ?” He answers uncertainly. Jack’s smile turns brilliant for a second before it gets watery. Gabriel’s heart does a somersault in his chest.

“How- You-” Jack stops and swallows, trying to find his words. His hands play nervously (or is it disbelief?) with the hoodie’s drawstrings. “Ana said you were dead.”

 

What.

But Jack knows who the person behind the mask of Reaper is. They’ve crossed paths enough times, battered and tired and bloody and still clashing with each other, accusations and anger spit like venom from both sides.  
Gabriel had known who Soldier 76 was from the very first time they’d crossed paths, and from the way the soldier had called him out across the empty warehouse that day (empty except for the two of them, and the bodies littering the ground in the space between them,) Jack had known too. Hard to forget what your partner’s fighting style is after thirty-something years spent having their back.

He blinks, slowly.

It doesn’t make sense.

What's going on.

“Gabe?”

Fuck.

“Hm-yeah. I mean. I kind of am. Dead.”

“Wha-”

“But you know that already, Jack.” Jack looks away.

“If I ever did, I don’t remember.”

 

Oh.

That's-

 

“What do you remember then?”

“.... We came out of a meeting about creating a medical branch for Overwatch, and you pulled me aside, told me to come see you later. But I don’t- I can’t remember what happened after. There’s just … nothing.”

The meeting gives him a time frame. Early years.

Somewhere between 52 and 53?

  
  
Hang on a second.

Hang on _a fucking second._

 

“I’ve never taken you on a proper date, have I? From what you remember, I mean.”

Jack turns a shade of red Gabriel hasn’t seen in over a decade. Almost two.  
  
“What year is it, Jack. For you. ‘52, ‘53?”

Jack worries his lip again. “September ‘53.” He mutters.

  
Shit.

That’s-

The fuck happened.

Last time-

Last time, Jack had forgotten about a day and a half. But they’re talking about almost 25 years here. It’s insane. Gabriel’s theory remains the same (someone killed Jack and triggered his nanites) but he has no idea why Jack reset to 23 years ago instead of a couple days, like he had during the only other instance of this Gabriel knows about.

 

“Gabe.”

He looks up, trying to get his mind back to the real world.

“What year is it? Ana wouldn't answer when I asked.”  
  
Gabriel swallows but answers.

“2076.”

 

Jack tries to assimilate the year without all the implications but there are tears at the corners of his eyes and Gabriel can’t-

He pulls him close, burying Jack’s face in the crook of his neck as he passes a hand up and down his once-upon-a-time partner’s back in soothing circles.

 

Jack shudders and shivers for a moment. Once he has calmed down a bit, he whispers quietly.

“Shit.”

_Bit weak for a curse there, sunshine, but yeah._

“How come I don’t remember anything? The monkey hum, Winston, he said I had not crossed the time-stream. That I had not time-traveled."

"He's a gorilla." Gabriel murmurs. Jack continues as if there had been no interruption.

"And you- You look the same, Gabe.”

 _That_ ’s something he’d rather not explain.

“I- ”

 

His comm goes off.

Gabriel curses under his breath (while thanking Sombra internally - he supposes it’s her anyway - for her timing) and accepts the call.

“What.”

“If you’re going to take the contract, the client has requested a meeting beforehand. In Gizeh. Sunrise, local hour.” Sombra comments, sounding like she couldn't care less. Which means he’d have to leave. Now. Dammit.

“Who’s the client.”

“The Shrike.”

The Egyptian vigilante? Why the hell would a vigilante want to hire a well-known (terrorist) mercenary.

Fucking hell. Gabriel needs to know at least that much.

 

“Jack...”

“You have to go?”

“Yeah.” _Sorry._

Jack nods and pulls away, only to crash like a wave against Gabriel again, lips and teeth and hands pulling him as close as possible. One of them groans but even if his life was on the line, Gabriel would be unable to tell if it’s Jack or him.

When his sunshine finally lets go, it’s with a smile that’s tired from too many emotions, from uncertainty and questions that remain without answers but a firmness in his gaze that Gabriel has missed.

“Go. I’ll be okay.”

“Jack, I-” Gabriel sighs and cups Jack’s cheek. “Just … don’t tell anyone about me. It’s important.” Jack seems surprised.

“No-one? Not even-” _Their friends._

“No-one.”

 

There’s a beat of silence as Gabriel pushes both his hands into his pockets. “Things are… things are different now.” He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Jack here. Alone. It's not safe. And every second he passes looking at Jack's golden hair remind shim of that. He could-

Jack bites his lip but nods.

“Okay.”

Gabriel nods too, distractedly, and rummages through his pocket as if searching for something. He pulls a little black ball out, small enough to fit in his palm and hands it to Jack. “Take it. Anything bad happens, squeeze it. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

The ball is made of his nanites, a bundled and rolled and squeezed into semi-sentience part of himself that he just made and it will protect Jack until Gabriel can come rain bullets on whoever would dare hurt his sunshine.

“I just … squeeze it?”

“Yeah.”

 

They share a smile and Gabriel dips in for a last much-more-chaste-than-the-previous-ones kiss. Jack chuckles as he pulls away, but his eyes are still worried.

“Don’t die?”

He pokes his tongue out.

“Can’t die twice.” Or can he? He’s not eager to find out, especially not now that Jack no longer remembers how to hate him.

“Smartass.”

"Is that complains I hear?"

Jack laughs. An honest to god laugh. And it shouldn't get to Gabriel, shouldn't make his heart try to climb out of his chest, but it does. His face must betray what he's feeling because Jack looks confused and worried all at once, with a hint of uncertain guilt.

"Gabe ... ?

"Been a while since I last heard you laugh, that's all." Gabriel simply says, flashing an apologetic smile. Jack swallows.

 

The communicator beeps angrily.

Sheesh.

Right.

Time to go.

 

Gabriel gets up, and feels the tell-tale ache of an upcoming bout of regeneration start its languorous stretch in his right side. Great. This day just keeps getting better. He goes back to the window and taps the switch to open the blinds again. He could just smoke out through the crack but-  Jack doesn't know how much he has changed yet. And he doesn't feel like breaking the news to him. Not yet. He will. Eventually. Just ... not right now.

"Maybe I should go with you..."

Gabriel turns to meet Jack's part uncertain, part hopeful gaze.

"It's not safe, Jack." Not yet. But if he played his cards right...

"Since when do we play safe, Gabriel?"

This. This is his Jack, the one he fell for so long ago, firm and stubborn and headstrong, before time and the life they were living wore his sunshine down to a shadow of his past self.

He sighs.

Averts his gaze.

Passes a hand down his face.

 

"There are things I can't tell you. Things I haven't told you."

Gabriel hears more than he sees Jack leaving his spot on the bed to come close and place a hand on his hip. He looks up. Jack's expression is one of patience and worry. Firm, careful, concerned. But mostly patient. Fingers lace with his own and he stares at their intertwined hands for a moment before bringing them to his lips to kiss knuckles that are no longer scarred and worn by age.

"I will, I promise. Just ... Trust me until then?"

"Of course." It's Jack's turn to bring their clasped hands to his lips. "Don't make me wait too long, okay?"

Gabriel cups Jack's neck with his free hand, pulling him close, bringing their foreheads together.

"Thanks." _For trusting me._ "And sorry." 

"What fo-"

 

Gabriel pulls back, only to headbutt Jack, hard, effectively answering and cutting off the oncoming question. The shadow tendril he'd used to crack the window open while he kept Jack busy (and said his goodbyes) cranks it open wide long enough for Gabriel to jump out without having to smoke. He does however, turn to smoke and shadows the moment he's out of sight, and rushes-slithers away.

He forms back in a dense patch of shadows and looks back. Jack is looking outside and rubbing his forehead. From this distance, it's hard to tell what he's feeling, but he doesn't shout after him. Or try to follow. That's _something_. After a few seconds of looking around, Jack goes back inside and closes the window again.

Gabriel lingers for a second before smoking away back to where he hid his ship. Part to avoid detection and part because he isn't sure his legs will hold him all the way there.

 

Time to deal with the Shrike.

Whatever the goddamn vigilante may fucking want with him.

 


End file.
